Screams sliced through the snow
(Falling heavy)
A warrior practices his throw
(Getting ready)
The butcher and the dead men know
(You pay the levy)
Who decides where the meat carts go?
(There isn't any)
So the three largest men
were lured within,
and the butcher had plenty to smoke.
Who decides where the meat carts go?

Whispers.
Barely heard sniggers.
Shouts, screams, and cries
fill the air with vigor.
Confusion gains theme
as chaos becomes victor:
Faces frozen in death,
bodies locked in rigor,
bolts growing from chests,
the hook of a cross bolt trigger.

Children burned alive,
fingerless hands searching for moms.
Parents made to watch,
then dismembered by the mob.

Pots of gold of such abundance,
they could never be carried off;
the thieves who hid the riches: dead.
The treasure: forever lost.

All corruption,
all *******,
was within these visions found.
Much too many were too vile
for the words that I lay down.
I search for meaning now,
and know that none is found.
As I read what I have written,
descriptions are only sound:
only air, moved by a body,
not yet in the ground.

Who decides where the meat carts go?